Deception on All Accounts

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  “Don't be such a stranger around here,” said Bennie.

  The two officers offered empty promises to be back soon as they left the gun club, then headed in separate directions.

  As the breeze flew through the open window of the truck, the big man whistled along with a Garth Brooks song coming from the small, tinny speakers of the truck radio.

  Images of the shooter in the range came back to him. Something about him I missed, he thought. He dismissed the man from his thoughts as he drove up to the house. He had hoped Lilly would already be on her way to her parents for her weekly visit. He was in luck. She was gone.

  Back at the range, the shooter picked up the brass that lay strewn on the floor and packed up his guns. Both in fine working order and ready for action.

  Chapter 17

  Johnny parked his car behind a trash Dumpster on the corner of Ross and Hudson. Across the busy intersection, a branch of Mid-State Bank bustled with late-afternoon traffic. Through his small, powerful binoculars Johnny could clearly see both north and west sides of the bank. It was a brown rock building with several huge windows.

  “Bankers sure do like their glass,” he muttered to himself.

  Each time the front door of the bank opened, it winked at the thief with a flash of reflection from the western sun. The ground floor of the small building seemed to house the entire branch operations. The second floor, smaller than the first, created the visual image of an off-centered, two-tier cake. Two large windows on the second story revealed what appeared to be a break room for the employees. A massive air conditioning unit sat on the roof of the lopsided structure, next to the break room.

  Johnny turned and drove south on Hudson, past West County Memorial Hospital, pulled into a convenience-store parking lot, and got out. He purchased two bottles of water and a newspaper, then sat in his car thinking for a few minutes before driving back north to the bank.

  Inside the first set of double glass doors, Johnny observed to his right a large metal door. From the layout of the building, he guessed it led to the stairs.

  A small, pale, dishwater blond sat at the first desk just inside the second set of glass doors. She was the younger of the two employees available in the lobby. Johnny carried the newspaper under his arm and a bottle of water in his hand as he approached her station.

  “May I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “Yes, I was just noticing here in the paper that your competition is offering a really low rate on car loans. What do you offer?”

  While the young girl searched through her desk for information, Johnny sat and surveyed the bank. There was one camera mounted above the door through which he had just entered, pointing toward the tellers. He could see no motion detectors, no video cameras, and no armed guard. The busy tellers, from time to time, carried money back and forth through a door behind the teller area. Obviously, the location of the vault, he thought.

  “Here we are. Depending on what kind of car…” The young girl launched into a well-rehearsed speech, more irritating than a phone solicitor selling insurance. Johnny listened politely until she finished.

  “Great. Now all I have to do is go pick out a car. Can you give me a copy of that?”

  “Sure.”

  Sensing a chance to increase her loan numbers for the month, the young woman jumped up and hurried to the teller area to make a copy for her new prospective customer. Johnny followed her across the lobby, waiting for his copy and absorbing as many details as possible.

  A college-aged teller stood holding the door open to the vault room with his foot, a bundle of money in each hand, talking nonchalantly to a woman inside he addressed as Bonnie. Johnny could see it was the same industrious woman he had watched arriving early and leaving late from the branch every day for the last three weeks. Perched on a stool, Bonnie stacked money in front of her while the currency counter whirred in short bursts. The keypad to the alarm system hung on the outside wall, left of the vault door.

  Johnny thanked the young girl for the copy and started to walk away. Then he stopped and turned, dangling the empty plastic water bottle in his hand. “By the way, do you have a restroom I can use?” Johnny smiled.

  “Of course. It's upstairs. I'll unlock the stairway for you.” The young girl retrieved a set of keys from one of the tellers and returned to open the locked door for him.

  Johnny thanked her, put the empty water bottle in the pocket of his jacket, and let the door close behind him before ascending the short flight of stairs. He had been right. The deserted second story housed a small kitchen for the employees.

  Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink right below a sign that read: “YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T LIVE HERE, CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF.” A table sat in front of the window facing the street. A short hallway contained three doors—two restrooms and one unknown.

  Johnny pulled the shirttail out of his jeans and used it to try the knob on the unmarked door. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, unleashing a rush of noise from an old, belching heat pump. Johnny quickly slipped inside, careful not to let the door slam, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. An outside vent provided just enough light to allow Johnny to move farther into the room. The outdated unit consumed a large area, causing Johnny to be careful not to come away marked with a hefty layer of dust. A built-in ladder hugged the opposite wall, leading to an opening in the ceiling. Johnny pulled a pair of leather gloves out of his pocket, put them on, and scaled the short ladder, discovering an access door to the roof. He could see no alarm contacts and a disconnected padlock inside the portal dangled to one side. Pushing up on the hatch, Johnny could see the flat, tar-and-gravel roof with a brick ledge. This was going to be easy.

  Johnny quickly slipped from the room and returned to the stairwell. A second check revealed no motion detectors. As he left through the door at the bottom of the stairs, he could see the dishwater blond staring at her computer screen.

  At home, Johnny pulled his car into the garage, next to the van. Inside the house, he removed two new gym bags from the closet and checked their contents. One held gym shorts and T-shirt, a black hooded sweatsuit, running shoes, a trash sack, and his special vest. The other bag held two zippered gun bags, gloves, ski mask, mirrored sunglasses, tape, and a rope with a rubber-coated grappling hook attached to one end.

  Johnny pulled out the double-lined canvas vest, unzipped it, and ran his hand in the secret compartments that would hold the money. The vest, a souvenir brought back from Vietnam by one of his dad's buddies, would not be serving as protection tonight. Instead, where it was originally designed to hold bulletproof armor, the modified vest would now house Johnny's loot. The former owner of this army invention, a helicopter gunner, used to sit on it to protect his bottom from enemy fire. It had served that veteran well, and now it would become a handy tool for Johnny.

  He replaced the vest and placed both bags next to the back door, sat on the couch, and flicked on the television. Before long, he had dozed to the drone of the six o'clock newscaster.

  At straight up 10 P.M., Johnny awoke as if an alarm clock had gone off in his head. He splashed his face before filling a plastic container with cold water and pouring it into the top of the coffee maker. The appliance gurgled and hissed before sending a stream of fresh coffee into the pot below. The aroma gave Johnny renewed energy. Opening the refrigerator, he foraged for something to eat. A white Styrofoam container held the remainder of a block of lasagna, last night's carry out. He placed it in the microwave and watched the box ride around on the glass carousel. Just before the greasy tomato sauce began to disintegrate the vessel, he popped the door and pulled out dinner. He ate directly from the container before washing the last bite down with a slug of coffee. He poured the remaining coffee into a thermos.

  He placed all of the things he had gathered into the back of his van and drove toward the expressway. He exited onto Jenkins Avenue and made his way toward Dawes Street. Twenty minutes shy of midnight, he turned into the shopping
area that housed the Day-In Day-Out Fitness Center. The neon light above the front door buzzed “Open 24 Hrs a Day.”

  When he entered the gym, a muscular woman with bleached hair and unnaturally large biceps looked up from a well-worn paperback book she was reading.

  “Hey, man, how's it going tonight?” she asked as Johnny signed the check-in sheet.

  “When are you going to get a real job, Margot?”

  Ignoring his comment, she sat tall in her seat, hit a key on a nearby computer keyboard, and waited for the screen to come to life.

  “If you don't quit reading that trash your mind's going to turn to mush,” he muttered. “Not to mention the unsavory effects the steroids are having on your body.”

  “Hey, it's good to see you, too.” Margot leaned back in the chair, raised her chin, and flexed the muscles in her right arm by squeezing a tennis ball in her hand. “Working out kind of late, aren't you?” she asked.

  Johnny didn't answer as he looked through the glass wall behind her into the empty weight room.

  The blond looked at the clock above the door. “I'm out of here in ten minutes…in case you're interested.”

  “I'm not.”

  Having already lost interest in the late customer, Margot returned her attention to her book.

  Johnny carried his gym bag to the men's locker room where he changed into shorts and T-shirt, grabbed a towel from a stack by the door, and headed to the treadmill. After a slow ten-minute jog, Johnny returned to the locker room, showered, and dressed in his special vest and black sweats. He placed his jeans and shirt inside the gym bag, along with the shorts and tee, and left the fitness center through the side door. Once inside the van, he placed the gym bag in its place under the seat.

  Johnny drove to the hospital parking lot and parked in the southeast corner, backing against tall, dense shrubbery. He climbed into the back of the van, removed the guns, and placed the zippered bags in the empty tool chest. Mechanically, he punched the release button on the Colt .45 with his right thumb and dropped the magazine into his left hand, checking for a full load. A flick of the wrist on the wheel of the Smith and Wesson 357 produced the same results. Both guns went inside the waistband of his tight underwear—the Colt in the front, the 357 in the small of his back. A police-band radio, smaller than Johnny's hand, rested in an inside T-shirt pocket. The earpiece, positioned snugly in his ear, remained hidden from view under his hood. A slender, collapsible grappling hook and rope fit comfortably in the hand-warmer pocket of his sweatshirt next to a small roll of duct tape.

  He checked the time and sipped coffee, careful not to drink too much. He didn't want to be distracted later by a full bladder. It was 2:45 A.M., time to go.

  Quietly, he walked the short distance to the shrubbery at the outer edge of the bank parking lot and waited in the moonless night for the police cruiser to make its nightly drive-through. Johnny knew the burglary shift ended at 4 A.M., and the car assigned to this area made its rounds routinely at 3:30 A.M.

  The black-and-white Ford Crown Vic turned into the driveway right on time, the young officer sitting low in the seat, steering the wheel with his right hand and aiming the spotlight in and around the bank with his left. The velocity of the vehicle never fluctuated until it moved back onto Hudson and headed downtown.

  Ski mask in place, Johnny positioned himself at the inner corner of the odd-shaped building with the movement of a sleek cat stalking prey. He removed the grappling hook and soft rope from his pocket. With the first toss, the small rubber-coated hook landed silently in perfect position. Johnny pulled on the rope, testing its hold. In less than fifteen seconds he scaled the side of the building, using the nubby, round rocks of the structure as footholds.

  Once on the roof, Johnny lay on his stomach and checked the ground for movement. Detecting none, he wound the thin rope around the collapsed hook and replaced it in his pocket. From his location next to the air conditioning unit he waited once more until he decided it was safe to move. Within seconds, he had scaled to the second level, opened the roof hatch, and lowered himself inside. A quick check of the time revealed four o'clock. Now all he had to do was go to the vault room and wait.

  A few minutes after 6 A.M., Bonnie arrived just like Johnny had watched her do every morning for weeks. He waited in the darkness as she punched in the code on the alarm pad next to the vault.

  “Okay, sweetheart. Keep it cool and nobody will get hurt.” The intruder's voice was calm, yet forceful enough to convince Bonnie he meant business.

  Startled, she screamed and fell backward, turning her ankle, keys and papers flying toward the ceiling. Johnny quickly grabbed her from behind, muffling her voice with his leather glove and holding the Colt to her right temple.

  “Shut up or you're going to die. Understand?”

  Bonnie made no sound but agreed with a nod of her head and he loosened his grip. Then she began to plead, “Please don't kill me. Oh, God, I'm going to die. Oh, please, I don't want to die.”

  “I said shut up. Do you understand?” He could feel her body trembling as he retightened his hold around her neck.

  “Yes…okay,” she said weakly. “Please, don't shoot me.”

  “Open the vault,” he said and let her go.

  With shaky hands, Bonnie inserted the key and rotated the combination. When she grasped the handle, the door would not budge.

  “Try again and pay attention this time,” Johnny calmly commanded.

  Bonnie took a deep breath and spun the dial back and forth once more. This time the door cooperated.

  “Open them.” Johnny motioned toward the cash drawers with his Colt.

  Bonnie opened two drawers that were marked on the outside in capital letters: “VAULT CASH.”

  “That's good. Get on the floor.”

  “Please, please, don't kill me,” Bonnie begged. “If I get on the floor, you'll kill me like an animal.”

  Johnny ordered her again: “I said, get on the floor.”

  Bonnie obeyed and Johnny pulled out the duct tape, which he used to blindfold, bind, and gag her. He pulled off his sweatshirt, removed his special vest, and began to fill it with large bills—first hundreds, fifties, then twenties. When it would hold no more money, he put it back on, zipped it, and pulled the hooded sweatshirt back over his head. He wanted to leave the building by 6:45 A.M., right when the regular mob of sleepy cops would be heading to the station for shift change like a herd of cattle on their way to the barn.

  He was right on schedule. It was 6:33 A.M., and if the rest of the bank's employees stuck to their usual routine, they wouldn't be here for over an hour.

  “Be quiet and lay right there. I'm going to go out here and wait for my ride. If you try to get up, I'll come back in here and kill you. Got it?”

  Johnny didn't really expect an answer and walked away from his victim toward the back of the bank. She hadn't made a sound or moved for quite a while. With my luck, she'll probably strangle on her own vomit, he thought.

  With the alarms off in the building, Johnny stood by the back entrance and listened. He pocketed his gloves, ski mask, and sunglasses, left his hood in place, and slipped out the door. Jogging slowly toward the hospital in plain sight, he listened in his earpiece to a police officer trying to make a date with the dispatcher on the radio.

  When he reached the van, he climbed inside and quickly disrobed. He placed the money vest and guns inside the empty tool chest; the sweats, gloves, ski mask, sunglasses, and running shoes went in the trash bag. He couldn't chance keeping the shoes, just in case he had left footprints on the roof. He donned his jeans and shirt from under the seat and drove to the other side of the hospital, pitching the trash sack in the huge trash container. He parked, entered the front door of the hospital, and walked straight to the busy cafeteria.

  At this time of the morning, the cafeteria buzzed with an eclectic group of people—doctors and nurses, hospital staff, family members keeping vigil for their sick loved ones. Johnny picked up a newspap
er, filled his tray, sat down, and ate a hearty breakfast.

  Charlie turned the nose of his black-and-white cruiser into the Waffle House parking lot. When he walked through the door, Gladys hit the button on the front of the coffee brewer. The old coffee machine let out a shriek and dwindled into a purr as fresh coffee streamed into an empty pot.

  Charlie took off his cap, sat at the counter, and never said a word as Gladys worked the busy diner. She winked at him as she whizzed by balancing three plates of eggs, grits, and waffles on her left arm and a half-empty coffee pot in the other. After serving the customers at the booth, she returned to the coffee machine and switched the coffee pots with lightning speed, spilling not a drop as the coffee continued to drip. With the precision of an expert, she poured a cup of fresh brew for Charlie and placed it in front of him along with a glass of ice water. He spooned ice from the water into his coffee, because, as always, it was too hot to drink.

  “How about a sticky cinnamon, Big Mac?” asked Gladys. “They're fresh out of the oven and I know you can make room for just one.” Gladys didn't wait for an answer as she sashayed through the swinging door into the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes.

  About that time, Charlie's radio began to crackle and spurt. Charlie had an uncanny ability to decipher the garbled messages streaming from the small speaker, even while in the midst of conversation and surrounded by dishes clanging and babies wailing. He got up off his stool and threw a dollar on the counter for the free coffee. Yelling at Gladys through the kitchen window, he headed for the door. “Forget it, Gladys,” he said. “Some fool's gone and robbed another bank.”

  Chapter 18

  Sadie sat in a booth next to the soda fountain in the Eucha Hilltop Drug Store and cruised the help-wanted ads in two newspapers—the Sycamore Springs Gazette and the Eucha News Press. The Sycamore Springs paper usually listed a few general job openings; the News Press rarely had any.

  She pushed her hair behind her ear with a pencil and then pressed the eraser against her temple while she read, periodically stopping to sip Dr Pepper through a straw. Her hair had grown fast in the last few months, already dividing over the tops of her shoulders.